


An Inconvenient Truth and A Convenient Deception

by PaleandBroodingsGirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Artificial Insemination, Divorce, F/M, Infertility, Pregnancy, mention of infidelity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2020-05-20 13:26:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19377634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaleandBroodingsGirl/pseuds/PaleandBroodingsGirl
Summary: Hermione is being decieved, and Draco feels obligated to tell her the truth. The inconvenient truth for Hermione becomes convenient for Draco. Will they both be able to get exactly what they want, or does further deception await them? Will they be brought closer or torn apart?ON HIATUS





	1. Part I

An Inconvenient Truth and A Convenient Deception

Part I

They both visit my apothecary monthly, like clockwork. Oh, sure, both patronize my shop at random times too, sometimes together and sometimes separately, but each comes seeking their own specific potion without fail. He comes in for his alone, however; he never purchases his specific potion while she's with him. When they are in my shoppe together, he'll look around for and then purchase anything except that which he comes in alone for.

Over the past year, I've put two and two together. My shoppe, though it is a thriving business, is still a small business, and as such, I'm the only brewer; hence, I'm the man making their potions. I see their names on the order forms, which are filed alphabetically by potion name and not by the customer's last name. After a few months of brewing enough of each specific potion to fulfill the exact number of orders, a shrewd Potioneer (which I am) catches on to the fact that a woman orders a fertility potion monthly and that her husband orders a contraceptive potion monthly.

I know the truth; however, I can't bring myself to inform the witch….to be the one to tell her how she's being made a fool….to see her big doe eyes gushing tears. I've seen that before, and believe me, once was more than enough; when she was screaming, begging, and writhing on my drawing room floor, she cried until the tears wouldn't fall anymore. I have not, in the six years since that happened, forgotten the image of her tears falling and pain in her eyes. I don't ever want to see that again.

Yes, I realize that the truth I'd impart to her would in no way compare to her being tortured by my crazy Aunt. Well, maybe it wouldn't compare to the physical pain of being tortured, but surely it would be as emotionally painful.

Yes, I realize that it may be unethical for me to watch (though reluctantly) her husband deceive her and say nothing.

Yes, I want her to be happy—she's like a friend (I say 'like' because though we are friendly, we don't socialize outside of my shoppe or outside of a chance meeting in Diagon Alley)—but does that mean I have to be the one to reveal the secret that would ruin her life? I think not.

I'm not going to tell her that while she is consuming a potion to increase her fertility month after month, her husband is trying to prevent her—and a mistress or two (or more)—from becoming pregnant. It's not my place, I tell myself.

So, I do nothing.

That's been my stance for the last year, until today, when I see her in my shoppe, filling out an order form for her usual potion. Tears are streaming down her face, although she's trying to hide it from my customer service witch at the front desk.

I can't explain what happens next, other than to say that something just snapped inside of me and is now propelling me out of my office and compelling me to comfort her.

She's instantly embarrassed that I've caught her crying, but her expression quickly becomes contrite; I told her numerous times during our 'eighth year' how her crying on my Drawing Room floor affected me (and I apologized profusely for standing there and doing nothing). She, being the compassionate witch she is, forgave me that year, and now, she, being the unfailingly gracious witch she is, is apologizing to me.

"Weasley," I say, though the word tastes bitter on my tongue (well, at least it does when I say it kindly and not dripping with disdain like when I say it to her husband), "don't you dare apologize to me." I say it firmly but kindly, and she nods.

I can't do 'nothing' anymore. "Let's talk privately in my office, Weasley. Yeah?" I say.

She nods and mumbles a 'thank you' as I lead her to my office. I direct her to sit in one of my pub chairs and hand her my clean hanky, which she accepts with a polite 'thank you' before commencing to dab at her eyes. With nonverbal spells, I close the door and Muffliato my office. Sitting, I wait for her to speak first because I recall from our last year in school that she eventually opens up if given enough time. She cried a lot during our 'eighth year.' Her tears fell then because of The Weasel, too; however, she doesn't realize (like I do) that the cause of her problems and her tears then is the same as it is now.

"It's just that it's been a year since I started taking the Praegnatio Potion," she says as she sniffs, wringing my hanky in her hands and smoothing it and then repeating the process. "It's been two years since we started trying (sniff), and it just (sniff) takes a toll on me, you know? (sniff) The Potion makes my hormones erratic (sniff) and every month it's all for naught (sniff)."

I just nod when she briefly lets her eyes find mine, and then I wait. My leg is jiggling from nervousness at what I'm about to do, so I stand and pour myself a finger of Firewhiskey; thankfully, I'm not brewing today. I offer her a drink, and at first she appears to decline but then says bitterly, "I may as well, huh? Please."

I turn to pour her two fingers of Firewhiskey. After she downs it, followed by a 'blech,' she lets the glass fall heavy onto the small table between our chairs. My wand is at the ready and I perform a nonverbal Aguamenti charm, filling her glass with cool water, which she notices immediately and drinks.

"Thanks, Malfoy," she says with a watery smile. I nod again. She sighs, and I (finally) work up the courage to say what needs to be said—or so I think.

"Weasley?..." I begin, losing my nerve, internally cursing my tendency toward self-preservation and my avoidance of public displays of emotion, verbal or otherwise, that has ill-prepared me for times like this.

"Please, call me Hermione, will you?" she pleads, and although I'm surprised, I nod.

"Then call me Draco," I return in a tone of false authority, smirking a bit to make sure she understands the meaning behind my tone. This time, she nods before bestowing me with a small smile. It's a bit awkward to be sitting here with her after so much time has passed since we last had an actual conversation—since before we left Hogwarts.

"Hermione," I begin, finding the sound of her name on my lips to feel strange; I've ever only called her 'Granger' and 'Weasley.' I frown; what I had begun to say just doesn't seem right. It seems too detached. As I've learned from being married for nearly four years, honesty is the best policy in times like this, so I think 'Here goes nothing' and I start again.

"Hermione, I don't know how much you've kept in touch with Astoria, so you may not be surprised to know that she and I, too, have had struggles with starting our family," I say, choosing my words carefully. From the look I see on her face, I can tell that she was not aware.

"Astoria and I have not discussed this with each other, no," she says. "I'm sorry to hear it," she adds earnestly. "Truthfully, she and I have not kept in touch like I wanted us to do. After you and I graduated, I was so busy planning my wedding and starting my training and then working and travelling so much, and I know that Astoria was busy with her final year, too, and then with your wedding…."

I nod—knowing, too, that Astoria hasn't exactly been a social butterfly in the last few years. "Well," I say, inhaling deeply, "We actually saw a renowned Muggle infertility specialist who was able to clear up the issue for us. Perhaps you and your husband (I cannot bear to speak his name—I'll only insult her if I do, and right now I don't want to hurt her feelings any more than they are) should consult her, too? I can give you her contact information—if you want?" I lower my gaze to my glass and fill it with water; my mouth is dry suddenly.

She sighs. "Thanks, Mal—Draco, but we just recently saw an excellent Muggle fertility specialist in London—perhaps the same one that you and Astoria consulted….Dr. Diana Grey?"

I nod (I know—shocker!).

"Well, she said that Ron and I both have abnormalities, and so we can keep trying, but it probably won't ever happen for us," Hermione says, trying to keep the tears at bay.

I sip my water, not allowing my gaze to meet hers. Carefully, I ask, "What did the Healers at St. Mungo's determine about you both?"

She frowns before replying. "Well, we started there first, a year ago….after we'd already been trying for a year with no success. We were told then that I was the only one with a fertility issue. That's when I was advised to start taking the Praegnatio Potion. We saw Dr. Grey two months ago, and that's when she found the irregularity in Ron's tests, as well as confirmed the irregularity in mine."

Ah ha—my 'in'. "What was Dr. Grey's recommendation for Ron?" I ask as casually as possible before sipping on my water.

"Some lifestyle changes is all," she says morosely. "You know, like maintaining a healthy weight and wearing loose boxers and such," she adds flippantly, assuming that I've heard all of this before and am probably familiar with what her arse of a husband was told (I'm not). "For the past two years, I've been eating extra healthily—and working out, too—and abstaining from alcohol—and I've been getting enough sleep—and we've been trying like crazy."

I'm certain that I blush, but she doesn't; she just looks frustrated, frowning as she rests her chin in her hands. I try to hide behind my tumbler, sipping on my water. (I know, I know; I'm a coward—still.)

"Before—when we thought that the only problem was with me—I felt so guilty—Ron wants a family so badly," she explains quickly.

I almost spit out my water in astonishment, but, thankfully, her gaze is once again upon my now-near-tattered hanky, so she doesn't notice.

"Now, though, I feel a little relieved that it's not all my fault, you know? But, I still feel so depressed that we cannot have children. We want a baby so much (sniff)."

Yes, 'we', I think, internally scowling. The Weasel wants a baby so badly that he's been preventing her from becoming pregnant for two years.

I have to move to disguise my body's angry response to her idiot husband's behavior. As I stand to pour another Firewhiskey (it's almost time for me to close the shoppe anyway), I suggest, "Perhaps, you should see a Healer again—without telling your husband that you're going this time. From the male perspective, it wouldn't do to get his hopes up for nothing." When I turn around, she is looking at me quizzically.

"What good would that do?" she says as she stands, walking toward me. "I was told just two months ago that I'm basically barren." She pours herself another serving of whiskey (two fingers, again).

I set my glass down and run my hands through my hair as she downs her second whiskey. When my eyes find her again, she's looking at me with a tiny crease between her brows. I look away quickly, using my wand to tidy my desk.

"What do you know, Draco?" she asks quietly, almost fearfully.

That is all I need to 'spill my guts.' I walk over to my huge wooden filing cabinet and pull out the drawer labeled 'A', rifling through for the Atocium file. Finding Weasley's latest order form, I pull it out. I then walk over to another large filing cabinet and pull out the drawer labeled 'W'. Finding 'Weasley, R. B.', I pull out all of the order forms from the last two years, minus the most recent order, which was already filed under 'A', as well.

Hermione is watching me curiously as I sit at my desk and place the parchments on top, facing her. I know she will recognize the name of the contraceptive potion; all I have to do to bring her world crashing down upon her has just been done.

Hermione looks at them and I see her eyes widen dramatically as a tiny gasp escapes her mouth. I can't bear to see anymore, so I rest my forehead on my steepled fingers. She's quiet for a long while before I hear sniffling that quickly turns into sobbing, and as I look up, I see her place one hand over her mouth and one on her stomach. Fearing she will faint, I stand quickly and round my large industrial-style desk in three strides. I'm at her elbow and urging her to sit back down when she screams.

It's like my memories and nightmares of that day—the one on which she was tortured in front of me—and it stings to know exactly how much she is hurting now. I almost regret what I've done.

Almost.

Before I can suggest again that she have a seat, she's swiping the order forms off of my desk, furiously and erratically. Then she turns on me, poking me in the chest with her pointer finger. "YOU KNEW?!" she shouts.

I close my eyes in shame and nod. Truthfully, I'm bracing for another slap to my cheek, but it never comes.

My eyes open when I hear the door hitting the wall behind it. Hermione is out of my office and shoppe in about five seconds flat. I doubt I'll ever have the opportunity to apologize this time.

I pour myself another Firewhiskey (three fingers this time) before I head home via Floo Network to my sweet, caring, lovely (and bloody sexy, by the way), and blood-cursed wife, who'd love nothing more than a baby, too….and whose own husband also takes Atocium every month like clockwork.

Don't compare me to The Weasel; my wife knows about my contraceptive use, at least.


	2. Part II

-The inconvenient truth plus two months  
The supposition I made the day Hermione fled my apothecary shoppe has proven correct; I haven’t had a chance to apologize to her. It’s been two months, and she has not come back—that I know, at least. I do know that I’ve not made her any Praegnatio Potion in the last two months.   
What about The Weasel, you inquire? Everything I surmised would happen has indeed come to fruition for that tosser. I’m rarely wrong, after all.  
Roughly a week after Hermione and I spoke in my office (the day of the ‘inconvenient truth,’ as I’ve dubbed it), Ronald Weasley stormed into my apothecary shoppe, demanding to see me. I hadn’t been surprised (in fact, I wondered what had taken him so long). Weasley Confringo’d his way into my office and stood in the doorway, all red-faced and panting and dressed in his Auror robes (all an attempt to intimidate me, I supposed) before he began casting hexes.  
He’s a skilled Auror, I’ll admit, but I doubted then (as I do now) that he has a dueling room in his own home and practices daily for entertainment—as does yours truly. I blocked every hex and jinx he nonverbally sent my way—and I did it nonverbally, to boot! I actually enjoyed sparring with the foul, lying git.   
Eventually, he did what any competitor (a desperate competitor, that is) resorts to doing when losing; he played dirty. He sent Unforgiveables my way, uttering Merlin-knows-what between curses. I blocked every one, all the while grinning at his manically contorted face. My face may have looked maniacal, too, for all I know, because sorcerer’s stones, I was relishing every bloody second of it! It was the most exhilarating and rewarding duel I’ve had since Second Year when I dueled Potter!  
One of my employees—the witch manning the customer service desk adjacent to my office—alerted the Aurors, who arrived swiftly (to my displeasure). Luckily for me, Potter and I had, years ago, buried the hatchet, so to speak, because he was one of the two responding Aurors. Confused (I presumed) to find that the perpetrator dueling the owner of the establishment reporting the crime was their fellow Auror, the two dolts just stood there. In between silently blocking Weasley’s offensive spells, I asked the “professionals” if they’d care to intervene. If they were insulted by my tone (which was overtly sarcastic), they didn’t show it; if Weasley was aware of the presence of his colleagues, he did not show it. His eyes, feral to a degree of which I haven’t seen since the war, were focused solely on me.   
Finally, Auror Robards subdued him, even going so far as to use Expelliarmus to obtain Weasley’s wand, and bound him with magical ropes. While Potter was demanding answers from The Weasel (and keeping a close eye on me, as only a cautious wanna-be Head Auror would do), Auror Robards used Priori Incantatem on Weasley’s wand.   
Ah, the thing dreams are made of, I thought to myself. I really was giddy as a kid in a candy store, though outwardly, I maintained my usual stoicism—my ‘Mask of Apathy,’ you might call it (I do).  
Potter looked stunned at what Weasley was confessing, Robards looked stunned at Weasley’s wand’s casted spell record….and I just tried to keep the smirk off of my devilishly handsome face. I even held out my wand before Robards or Potter could request it to perform Priori Incantatem on it as well; at that Weasley looked like he was about to explode.   
It was bloody brilliant.  
In the end, Robards hauled Weasley away, and I initiated the process to press charges against Weasley—the icing on the cake, so to speak. Surprisingly, Potter seemed too stunned to argue with me about that. Before he left, he asked, “It’s true? Ron’s been lying to Hermione? Preventing her from getting pregnant?”   
I nodded, and he stared blankly at me long enough for it to get awkward. After he bid me goodbye and was just about to disapparate, he looked over his shoulder at me and said, “Thanks for looking out for her, Malfoy.”  
Right, I’d thought, ‘looking out for her’—as if what I had done were merely pointing out a simple, inconvenient truth and not ruining her life.  
So, here it is, two months later. Weasley’s been to jail, been bailed out by some family member, been stripped of his position as an Auror, and is set for sentencing soon. The Daily Prophet, the pinnacle of journalistic excellence that it is, has also reported—repeatedly—on the marital discord and impending divorce of “The Wizarding World’s Royal Couple.” Two months later, and I’ve not seen Hermione (except in pictures in that rag of a newspaper) nor heard from her. 

-The inconvenient truth plus three months   
After another month to passes, I’m following the advice of my wise wife and apologizing to Hermione via letter. I also comply with my wife’s directive to invite Hermione over for dinner sometime soon. (That shouldn’t be awkward at all.)

-The inconvenient truth plus three-and-a-half months   
Astoria and I are sitting on our large Chesterfield sofa, cuddled up together by the fire and enjoying a quiet Saturday morning. I’m absently winding a strand of her espresso-brown hair (beautiful, although not as lustrous as it once was) around my finger as I read Modern Potioneering. It’s the latest edition of the quarterly publication and there’s a riveting article on—Oh, I digress. (My apologies.) Anyway, Astoria is reading through her correspondence when she squeals in delight suddenly.   
“Draco?”  
“Hmm?” I respond absently as I keep reading the journal. She places her tiny, pale, bony hand to my cheek to turn my gaze to her. I do have a tendency to get absorbed in my journals and miss things she says, but I know it’s something important when she employs her ‘look me in my eyes’ gesture.  
“Yes, love?” I say, gazing into her strikingly beautiful honey-brown eyes and smiling.  
I’m rewarded with the acclaimed smile of Astoria Greengrass-Malfoy. Some say that her smile would be the smile to launch a thousand ships. While I agree that her smile is beautiful, I simply see it as the smile of the woman I love, adore, and cherish. Call me sappy, but she’s made me become a better man—and I’m man enough to admit it.  
Astoria waves the letter she’s holding in her hand. “Hermione wrote back! She says, ‘Dear Astoria, I hope this letter finds you well. Blah, blah, blah….Ah, here it is! I’d love to catch up with you, and I’m amenable to dinner at your home. No, Draco being there, too, will in no way cause me distress, but I thank you for your consideration just the same. Please owl me the particulars and I shall be there. Your friend, Hermione.’ Isn’t this smashing? I’m going to owl her now and set up a dinner date!”   
Off glides my elfin-like wife to her secretary. As I watch her, I see her select her lavender-scented parchment—the one she reserves for ‘those whom I truly love.’ I just grin and shake my head at her exuberance before returning my attention to my journal; it’s good to see her so vibrant. 

-Later that same day  
Astoria has been talking incessantly since receiving Hermione’s letter. We are getting ready for bed now, and she is still talking. There’s only one way I can convince her to drop the subject of dinner with Hermione. Although I am not being subtle in the least, I still have to employ all of the tools in my arsenal; my Astoria is a stubborn witch, and she isn’t easily distracted when her mind is engaged in her own pursuits.   
We make love, and it’s exquisite, as always. My Astoria puts her all into all of our unions (even though she knows she’ll be exhausted the next day), and tonight is no exception. In fact, I think she may be more expressive tonight than she usually is—not that I’m complaining.   
We have come down now from our euphoria, still entwined in one another, and we are both quite knackered. Astoria sweetly compliments me, and I return the sentiments whole-heartedly. I’m expecting her to drift off to slumber momentarily, as per her usual routine, but she surprises me; she repeats her ‘look me in my eyes’ gesture for the second time today.   
Not more dinner party planning talk, my mind begs as I groan internally. I love my wife more than my own life, but there’s a limit to the amount of party planning that I can endure in one day.  
Astoria flashes her brilliant smile at me, and I immediately smirk, thinking that she wants to praise my efforts in the bedroom again.   
I will never deny her that.  
“Draco?” she breathes.   
“Yes, Angel?” I respond as I brush hair from my eyes and await her words of adoration like an eager puppy.  
“I want a child, Draco,” she says in all seriousness, her sweet smile having vanished and been replaced with a look of fierce determination.   
My mouth opens and closes like a fish before I finally find my words. “You know that’s not possible, Angel,” I say, trying to hide the aggravation in my tone. We’ve been over this….and over this….and over this—you get the point, yeah? I thought that she’d finally given up; apparently not.   
“It IS possible, my Dragon,” she coos. She’s running a tiny fingernail over my chest deliciously, which, along with her saucy look, is designed to melt my resolve; it usually works, too—just not where this topic is concerned.   
I sigh, knowing that she’ll not let this up and that the sooner I ask her to explain the sooner I can begin getting in my forty winks. (My handsome looks don’t remain such without proper care, after all.)   
“Dr. Grey told us that it’s not going to be possible, love, but, please: enlighten me as to how you believe it is,” I say gently as my eyes fall shut.  
“It’s quite simple,” Astoria says factually, as though she and I and the fertility specialist have overlooked the most simple of solutions.   
I yawn. “And?”  
“You make a baby with another witch,” she says airily. I cough-slash-choke, opening my eyes at the speed of the latest Nimbus model.   
“What? No,” I declare, setting may jaw. We’ve been over this! Surrogacy was only on the table for about two seconds four years ago—which I promptly remind her.  
“Yes, however,” she says, practically singing with excitement. “We never had a perfect candidate available to us before, and now we do!”   
“We do?” I inquire unenthusiastically.   
“Yes, you dolt!” Astoria says and laughs (her laugh is like tiny, tinkling bells, by the way). “Hermione, of course.”

-The inconvenient truth plus three-and-a-half months and one day  
I didn’t get much sleep last night. Astoria and I fought into the early morning over her suggestion (which she, when I labeled it so, vehemently declared that it was a demand, not a suggestion). I declared that I would not sleep with Hermione—or any other witch—to produce an heir. I don’t care about an heir, I reminded her. I knew she was cursed and that Healers had already declared that pregnancy would most likely result in her death before I married her. I married her for her and not for what she could provide me, I reminded her. Sorcerer’s stones—I defied my parents for her! (I did not remind her of that, however; cunning and determined I may be, but barmy I am not.)   
Some women throw tantrums to get what they want; I’ve seen that more than you’d imagine coming from the society into which I was born and raised and have continued to circulate (albeit unenthusiastically). My Astoria, though, doesn’t play that game—she never has, nor will she ever, I’d wager. Astoria was genuinely distraught, sobbing and becoming hysterical. I felt despicable for denying her. It was beyond dreadful.  
This morning, as I lay next to her slight, beautiful sleeping form—and maybe it’s the sleep deprivation talking, here—I’m actually considering her demand. Astoria wants to be a mother more than she wants anything, and she would make an excellent mother. The best. If I love her (which I do—more than anything), then who am I to deny her what her heart desires most?

-The inconvenient truth plus four months  
Hermione is at my home, sitting in Astoria’s and my intimate dining room. Astoria is practically vibrating with excitement—she has been all night—and nervousness; she fears Hermione will not agree to be our surrogate. I can’t help but notice how beautiful my Astoria looks tonight; I haven’t seen the light in her eyes or the blush of her skin in too long.  
Hermione looks lovely, too. I expected her to look like a hollow version of the woman she was before learning the inconvenient truth about her husband, but she’s proved me wrong. (Truth be told, it does happen once in a blue moon.) She even seems happy.   
I apologized in person to her when she arrived tonight, and after a few awkward minutes, it was as if the whole incident hadn’t even occurred.   
Now, as we finish our desserts (Astoria instructed the cook to make Hermione’s favorite, English Trifle), my part in this dinner party is about to conclude. Astoria and I agreed that only she should propose our request to Hermione; otherwise, it seems to us, our request could come across as….lewd. Well, perhaps more lewd is better phraseology.   
I retire to my office as Astoria and Hermione retire to the lounge, arm in arm as they go and laughing at some inside joke. I’ve planned to await Astoria’s return while reading, but I find that I’m reading every sentence twice and not absorbing a word. Instead, I start pacing, which is doing zip for my nervous tension.  
I’m nervous for Astoria. I want her to have a child. Don’t get me wrong—I want a child, too—but….it’s just that I know that as long as I have Astoria, I have everything I’ll ever need. That was my sentiment the day I proposed marriage to her, and that will be my sentiment until I breathe my last breath.   
When I hear the clicking sound of my door opening, I spin around toward it, raising my eyebrows in query. Astoria’s expression is less exuberant than it was before, and I feel my stomach clench in disappointment.   
“She’s going to think about it,” she says softly with a watery smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your support of this story! 
> 
> Disclaimer: Only the plot is mine. I am not profiting from this story in any way except the pleasure of writing it!


	3. Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione receives a proposal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things aren't always as they seem...bear with me; i ADORE a good plot twist, and i hope you do, too!

An Inconvenient Truth and A Convenient Deception

Part III

 

            I’m beyond shocked when I return to my hotel room, which I’ve been staying in since moving out of the home I shared with Ron nearly for months ago. Well, to be clear I was shocked since the moment Astoria and I sat down in the garden. I had most definitely not seen that coming—any of it! But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me begin at the beginning before I jump to what Astoria and I discussed this evening in the garden.

Firstly, the whole evening at the Malfoys’ was the perfect getaway from my problems (my deceitful ex-husband being the instigator of said problems—in case that wasn’t clear, _pfft)_. The past four months have been a living nightmare. I’ve missed my parents more in the past four months than I have in the past seven years since I Obliviated them. I’m sick to death of the paparazzi and the reporters, of my lawyer, of the Ministry (as I have been forced to go there for divorce-related filings, appointments, and proceedings), and of the pitying looks I see and of the whispers I hear every place I go. Even going to work has been a nightmare because not only do I work for individuals who hate me (and who only hired me because I’m undeniably the best Curse Breaker in Europe), but I also work with the brother of my ex; yes, I work for the Goblins of Gringotts Wizarding Bank of Diagon Alley and my partner is Bill Weasley. The Goblins have been all too smug about ‘the unfortunate turn of events’ in my life, and my former brother-in-law is so ashamed of what his own flesh and blood did to me that he walks on eggshells around me all day and apologizes profusely. It’s all been too much.

The only refuge I’ve had these past four months has been my tiny, lonely hotel room and the Malfoys’ townhome. Harry and Ginny invited me to stay with them at Grimmauld Place, but I just needed a neutral space, you know? So, I chose a hotel in Muggle London near The Leaky Cauldron so that I would be close to work. 

The Malfoys’ home is in Mayfair, London across from the famous ‘Secret Gardens,’ and it has its own access to shared private gardens, as well. Just being in the neighborhood before and after dinner was a pleasant and unordinary experience for me. The Malfoys’ Georgian-style, three-level home (which, Astoria told me, is around four-thousand square feet and has four lavatories, five bedrooms, a study, and a dueling room, in addition to all of the other obvious rooms) is just lovely—not at all like what I imagined or what I remember of Malfoy Manor. Draco and Astoria have restored the old home to its former glory, Astoria doing the design and decorating and Draco doing much of the manual labor (but hiring contractors mostly), Astoria told me. I instantly loved the home. It’s tastefully decorated but not pretentious, which fits Astoria perfectly….and Draco, too, as he’s lost the arrogance that always bespoke his spoiled-rotten childhood. But, I suppose, all that he’s been through in the past six years since the War has probably done quite a job of expunging the entitled prattiness from the boy that he once was.

My time at the Malfoys’ tonight was wonderful. I hadn’t realized how much I missed Astoria until I had been in her presence again for all of ten minutes. Tonight, Astoria was as she had been while I knew her at Hogwarts; she was gracious, friendly, and easily excitable, plus fun to be around. Her face was just as pretty as I remembered, too, although she seemed slighter….like a strong wind could easily knock her over. Our conversation was light and easy, as was mine with Draco, reminiscent of my last year at Hogwarts, when the three of us became friends. Draco seemed a bit quiet, but I attributed that to the way our last interaction—that awful day in his shoppe office—ended.

The food at dinner was delish! Astoria admitted that she did not cook for the evening’s meal (she has a part-time cook), but that she had made the dessert, which was English Trifle (my favorite!) with brandy flavored ladyfingers and almond flavored custard. The Trifle was so surprisingly delicious that I moaned upon taking my first bite. I was instantly embarrassed, as you can imagine, and Sorcerer’s stones, my face got hot right quick! Astoria just laughed, and I found myself laughing, too (Draco appeared to be disguising his reaction behind his napkin and had the graciousness to not tease me). I couldn’t believe Astoria had made such a wonderful dessert for me, let alone that she’d made my favorite!—or that she’d remembered that bit of triviality from our Hogwarts days in the first place. Even Ron had certainly never shown so much thoughtfulness for my preferences in the six years we’d been together.

When Astoria and I retired to the lounge after dinner, we sat for only a few minutes before Astoria confided in me regarding her health issues. I nodded, recalling that Draco had mentioned their struggle with infertility when I’d confided in him about mine—well, my _supposed_ infertility, that is….

I should explain: my git of a husband (foul, loathsome, evil little cockroach that he is) had used the Confundus Charm on the Healers and the Muggle specialist whom we consulted, forcing them to lie about the results of my fertility tests. Ronald even Confunded the Muggle specialists to errantly report that he, too, was sterile. Those diagnoses led me to taking the fertility potion and to Ron and I trying almost nightly for a baby—a baby….and a life….that Ron never even wanted. When I ceased taking my contraceptive two years ago, he began taking his, all the while leading me to believe that we were about to start our family.

What a bastard.

Anyway, in the Malfoys’ lounge, I expressed my sorrow for Astoria’s infertility issues, and she gave me a very bewildering look. I apologized immediately, fearing that I’d offended her, and mumbled about Draco telling me they’d consulted Dr. Grey. Astoria cleared the air by gently saying, “I’m not infertile, Hermione. We did, indeed, consult Dr. Grey, but that was because she is an expert in all issues pregnancy-related. We wanted her opinion on whether or not I _should_ _attempt_ to become pregnant.”

I was astonished, for sure, and when I did speak, I sounded like an utter fool. Astoria just giggled and dismissed my apologies and inarticulate words with a wave of her hand.

“I have a sickness, Hermione—a blood curse—and the expert opinion was—always has been—that I should not become pregnant because it would kill me.”

My heart ached for poor Astoria, but I couldn’t help but sit up excitedly and blurt out, “A curse? Astoria, perhaps I could break it!”

My sweet friend smiled sincerely and, with a wave of her hand, said, “Not one Curse Breaker in all my life has been able to break it, Hermione—not in centuries, in fact, as this curse is a familial one that has plagued the Greengrasses for hundreds of years.”

Blast it, I felt dejected as I sunk back down into the plush Chesterfield sofa. “I’m sorry,” I said lamely.

Astoria just waved it off, and suggested that we walk in the private gardens, which I had been admiring, behind the townhouse.

Once outside, we walked arm-in-arm through the lush, green gardens. There was just enough light left from the setting sun, in addition to the light from the garden lampposts and from the surrounding townhomes, to see by, and it was a beautiful, warm, May evening. We walked and chatted about the garden until Astoria asked if we could sit. She looked a bit pale, but insisted that she was alright as we made our way to a bench at the pond’s edge. The pond was man-made with stones surrounding it that matched the stone walkways through the entire garden. A small statue, which appeared to be a wingless cherub or a child, stood in the middle of the pond, and several lily pads decorated the water. It was very peaceful; I could understand why Astoria chose this spot.

After sitting placidly for a moment, she said, “What’s the one thing in life that you want most, Hermione?”

The answer shot to my tongue immediately; fortunately, I was able to hold it in at the last possible second before I wounded my friend’s feelings. I bit my lip.

“A child?” Astoria guessed, and I hesitantly nodded with an apologetic smile. “It’s alright, Hermione,” she said with a chuckle. “I don’t begrudge you your ability to have children just because I will not be able to carry a child.”

Relief spread through me like a wave as I released a breath I’d been holding.

“All my life, I wanted to be a mother, Hermione. I still do.”

I nodded in understanding. “Have you and Draco thought about adoption?” I asked timidly. “Or surrogacy?”

Astoria flashed me a smirk—much like her husband’s smirks (which now seem more playful than spiteful), I might add—and nodded. She grabbed my left hand and tucked it under her right arm, her left hand coming across her body to cover mine; her hands were freezing, and so I added my right hand to our pile of hands to warm hers. “Either would be a good avenue to pursue, but Draco and I have chosen surrogacy.”

“That’s wonderful, Astoria,” I said, squeezing her hands with mine. “I’m excited for you.”   
            She beamed and nodded. I saw a bit of color returning to her cheeks, and I gave credit to the cooling air until I saw that her caramel-brown eyes were bright. _She’s just happy—very happy_ , I thought.

 _She and Draco will have beautiful babies_.

“Thank you, Hermione. I was hoping that you’d be….supportive.”

I know the look on my face had to have been one of confusion because Astoria let out a tiny giggle. Charming though her little laugh is (the type that makes you want to laugh right along with her), it only made me more befuddled. “Why would I not be, Astoria?” I said. “You’re my friend.”

“And you are one of my most dear friends, Hermione,” she said sweetly. “As such, I am going to let you in on a little secret,” Astoria whispered conspiratorially and winked, making me laugh this time. “But, you have to promise not to tell anyone,” she said, pointing her finger at me in mock seriousness, her eyes still sparkling with mischief.

I laughed again. “You have my word, Astoria,” I said, grinning at her playfulness. She had become like the sister I never had while we were at Hogwarts, and I’d missed her unique personality and the laughs we’d shared, I realized then with regret.

Then, Astoria _did_ get serious. “Promise me, Hermione,” she demanded. “Not even Draco can know.”

The sudden change in her demeanor startled me. “Of course, Astoria,” I said solemnly, truly flabbergasted but trying not to show it.

She eyed me for a few moments before she nodded and sighed. “My curse….it’s progressing rather quickly. I always knew that I would not live to a very old age….but according to my Healers, I will not live to see thirty.”

I gasped and then frowned, and then closed my eyes, and only Astoria knows what else I did because I can’t remember—my emotions were all over the place! “Astoria, no! Only, what….eight more years?”

She nodded and said, “Eight more years, IF I’m lucky.”

“That’s awful! Oh, poppet! I—I’m so, so very sorry! Wait—why can’t Draco know?”

Astoria looked at me sadly, but I saw determination there, too. “I don’t want to live my last years with him being all broody the whole time—you know that he’s already so broody anyway. I want us to be happy for as long as possible. I want us to have a child who will be our everything while I’m here and who will be Draco’s everything after I depart this life.”

I processed that, staring at the childlike statue in the pond even as I said weakly, “I don’t think I can keep that secret from Draco, Astoria. You’re my friend, darling, but so is he.” I looked at her then; her lips were upturned slightly.

“It’s not your secret to tell, Hermione,” she said softly, and blast it, but I knew she was right! I knew that I wouldn’t—couldn’t—betray her trust. Then it hit me—she’d played me! She’d known that I wouldn’t tell Draco if I promised I wouldn’t.

“Astoria! You….you….you _Slytherin_!” I accused as I let out a laugh in astonishment in spite of myself. Astoria just preened and smirked, sitting up straighter.

“I may not have been sorted into Slytherin House, Hermione, but enough of my family and friends were that I couldn’t help but learn their ways,” she said in faux-haughtiness before giggling and giving up the charade.

I giggled along with her until my sadness washed over me like a tidal wave. She stopped giggling, too, as a look of determination took hold of her features.

“Hermione, Draco and I have a wonderful marriage—the best marriage I could ever hope for—more than what I ever dreamed of….I can’t ruin that, Hermione. You see?”

I nodded, tears welling up in my eyes as I saw the same in hers. We sat in silence for a few minutes.

“So,” Astoria began with in a lilting tone, “we have decided to pursue surrogacy.”

I couldn’t help but ask the next question when Astoria was silent once more. “Are you going to ask Daphne to carry your child then?”

Astoria huffed a tiny bit before she said, “My sister doesn’t want to ever be pregnant….even for me.” Astoria sighed so forlornly that I was moved to hug her, so I did. I embraced her tighter than I had upon greeting her this evening, and Heavens, if she weren’t bonier than I’d ever known her to be! I felt a lump forming in my throat and I swallowed it down quickly. After a good, long hug, I released her.

“I cannot carry a child, nor will I be the biological mother; I will not risk passing my blood curse on to a child. This curse on our family will end with Daphne and me.”

“So you are going to use donor eggs, then?” It was more of a statement.

Astoria’s mouth twitched. “In a sense, yes.”

 _In a sense?_ I was truly not following her, so I quirked a brow at her. Brow-quirking is something I’ve pretty much perfected after all of the time I’ve spent enduring the shenanigans of Harry, Ron, and the Weasley brothers over the last fifteen years; despite that, Astoria just laughed at me. When she’d regained her seriousness, she explained.

 “Draco doesn’t care about an ‘heir,’ nor does he care about a child being his by blood, but I do want Draco to be the biological father. I don’t want him raising the child of another woman _and_ another man when he his fully able to have his own biological child. So,” Astoria took a breath and let out a breathy sigh, “that requires an egg donor who will also be a surrogate.”

“Have you had any luck finding one?” I ask timidly. Astoria closed her eyes and for a second I thought she had fallen asleep.

“Not quite,” she said, opening her eyes. “The perfect woman for the task….well, she’s been preoccupied until recently. She’s the only other person whom we trust enough. You see, we want her to be involved in the child’s life—to help raise him or her and to be a second mother….especially after I am gone.”

Astoria smiled and squeezed my hand in hers again as I felt tears starting to fall at the thought of Astoria passing….leaving behind a child and a husband who absolutely worships the ground she walks on….leaving behind her supposed friend who has been absent from her life for so long. Guilt over my self-absorption and the neglect of my friend for the past four years piled up on top of the misery I felt about her illness.

“Oh, poppet,” she cooed, releasing my hands and discreetly transfiguring a leaf from the bush behind us into a handkerchief for me. I gladly accepted it and wiped my eyes then my nose. I pondered first the mess I was at that moment (and what I had been for the past four months), and second my friend—my younger friend who was half in the grave already. She was so composed, she was so strong—stronger than any woman I knew, I marveled. I put my hands over her cold ones and rubbed them to warm them again, sniffling as I did so.

“You would have made a fantastic Hufflepuff, Hermione,” she said sincerely. I knew that I should (and I did) take that as a compliment as it came from Astoria, the quintessential Hufflepuff. Right then, though, I realized that she was also very Gryffindor—perhaps more so than I—and I told her so.

She just laughed (good naturedly, of course), and said, “Thank you.” Then that loyal, patient, accepting, and humble witch rocked my world. “Hermione, Draco and I would be honored if you would agree to be our surrogate and our child’s mother.”

My jaw dropped, my eyebrows shot up. I sat motionless and silent, staring at Astoria’s face as she proceeded to inform me of one requirement she had of me if I were to agree to her and Draco’s proposal.

After an indeterminable amount of time, I vaguely registered hearing Astoria’s adorable giggle, and then her voice brought me back to full awareness. “Hermione? You still in there?”

I nodded vigorously and blinked purposefully a few times. “Yeah,” I said over-exuberantly. Astoria squeezed my hand.

“All we hope for right now is that you agree to consider it. Please?”

I nodded, and I sincerely meant that I would when I told her so, but then I immediately stood and offered her my hand. “It’s getting cold out here, Astoria, and you’re freezing already. Draco will be upset with me if I keep you out too long.”

Tucking her arm in mine, I walked her back to the Malfoys’ residence as quickly as I felt she could walk. While she prattled on about something (the types of unique flora to be found in the garden?? Sure, let’s go with that), I could only think of the requirement of which she’d informed me.

 

Now, I’m laying awake in my hotel room bed, replaying the evening in my head from start to finish (when I politely but hastily took my leave). I’ve replayed and analyzed and repeated. After laying here for an hour already, I’m still crying over my friend’s illness while, simultaneously, I’m giddy.

Am I giddy about the opportunity to have a child—a child who would not only be my child biologically, but who would also be my  _child_? Am I giddy about being able to be a mother soon, when for the last four months I’ve thought that it could be years until I found another man I’d be able to love, let alone with whom I could have a child? Yes, I’m giddy!

Am I thinking that I’m right barmy to even be considering it? Definitely!

The Malfoys want me involved in the child’s life permanently, and while I trust them, it also seems to good to be true. I mean, could the three of us parent a child? I imagine that could be easy; however, how would that dynamic change after Astoria passes? Then it’s me, single or possibly married again by then (and maybe with other children, too), and Draco, a widower raising his child part-time with a woman who was just the oven for his bun. It seems right complicated and awkward.

Could I parent my child on my own even part-time?

Maybe I’m being too pessimistic?

I don’t know.

I don’t know!

I also don’t know what to think about the requirement that Astoria mentioned to me. (A little help, here?!) She told me that she and Draco do not want to make me go through in vitro—the added pressure and the hormones, etc. In fact, she _insisted_ that the baby ‘be conceived the natural way’—meaning, of course, that Draco and I will have to sleep together.

I will have to have sex with Draco.

Draco Malfoy.

Another woman’s husband.

A _Malfoy_ , for cripes sake!

According to Astoria, Draco has agreed to this requirement; and to think that I had attributed his unusually quiet behavior this evening to awkwardness from our last meeting! Ha! It stemmed from him knowing that his own wife was going to ask me to sleep with him! I groan miserably at the thought.

Oh, Sorcerer’s stones—I _moaned_ during dessert!

There’s no coming back from that!

I groan ( _not_ moan!) again as I lay here.

I have been wide-awake for hours now. I’m tossing, turning, and biting my lip so badly that it’s dry and painful. I’ve contemplated all that I promised I would, and I still have not reached any conclusion. I know it’s only been a few hours—but it’s not as if Astoria has loads of time in which to enjoy being a mother, is it?

I feel so much pressure and so much impatience and excitement and some doubt, and—aghhhh, I just wish my parents were here to help me with this!

I sob hard.

I notice that I’ve now cried for an hour. Luckily, I’ve stopped taking the fertility potion or I’d be a right mess right about now—probably waking up the people in the rooms next to mine with my hysterical cries.

Another hour has passed. I’m still unable to sleep—tossing, turning, but mostly thinking.

Now it’s three a.m. All night (except for the last hour), I’ve been taking this very seriously (and rightly so!). However, for the last hour, as much as I have to consider….the only thing I’ve been thinking about is having sex with Draco. Not once have I ever had lusty thoughts for Draco before tonight. Normally, I would feel absolutely despicable for doing so, but as it happens, I don’t feel wicked at all. After all, his wife did, for all intents and purposes, ask me to entertain these thoughts.

I think I shall.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, and please let me know what you thought!


	4. Part IV

An Inconvenient Truth and A Convenient Deception

Part IV

 

Hermione:

I’ve had not quite a week to consider the Malfoys’ proposal. At this moment, I’m sitting in their lounge, and I’m right nervous, to say the least. I fear that what I have to say today will deeply disappoint my friends at the least and may ruin our friendship at the most. Astoria, too, seems nervous—although it’s not an excited nervousness as I had expected. It’s more like a worried energy, and it’s throwing me all off. I was really calm before I came here—I did cardio and then yoga at the gym before I relaxed my tension out further by getting a massage. Now, the endorphins seem to have dissolved and my loose muscles are once again taught.

_Perhaps she changed her mind about wanting me as her surrogate?_

Draco has not arrived home yet from his shoppe, Astoria tells me, so she and I are making small talk as she prepares tea for the three of us. Astoria prepares the tea without a break in our conversation. With an impressive bit of nonverbal wand work, the teapot levitates and pours tea into cups, cream and sugar distribute themselves into cups according to the preferences of each of the three of us, and the cups and saucers smoothly glide into our hands (Draco’s remains on the tea tray). I marvel at Astoria’s skill at these Charms and wonder what other skills this humble witch is capable of performing. She never seemed to have an aptitude for much at Hogwarts—but then again, when did I ever have the opportunity to witness the talents of a girl who was not in any of my classes or in my House?

After taking a few liberal sips of tea (which is _exactly_ to my liking, I find), I seek out my knitting needles and wool yarn from my beaded bag. I decided before coming here that I’d be less fidgety during this incredibly awkward visit if my hands (and eyes intermittently) are occupied. I get to work on my new project (which is neither baby clothes nor a baby blanket, in case you’re wondering) and continue to converse.

When Draco enters the room, he sends me a polite smile and nod before greeting his wife. As I knit, I watch surreptitiously as he courteously assists Astoria to stand and then, with his back to me, kisses her and whispers to her briefly. So blatant is their love for one another that my heart clenches—not from jealousy (although I do want a love like theirs someday) but instead from sadness for what will be no more after Astoria’s passing. My heart aches for what Draco will have to go through.

In a moment, I realize that Draco has taken a seat and, to my relief, is not sitting across from me. Draco chose a very comfortable looking chair to my right—though he looks everything except comfortable in it.

Odd.

Astoria, though, has reclaimed her spot on an antique sofa opposite mine and is literally sitting on the edge of her seat. The composure I saw in her upon Draco’s entry has given way to her unusual nervousness again. 

The clicking of my needles as I work my yarn from one needle to the other is the only sound in the room when I begin my speech (which I have practiced about ten times in the past week). “Firstly, I want to thank you for the tremendous honor you have bestowed upon me by asking me to be your surrogate and egg donor and to remain involved in my child’s life,” I gush without an ounce of insincerity.

I’m trying to make eye contact with both Astoria and Draco (you know, trying to be a ‘brave Gryffindor’ and all that) between eying my craft. Draco’s having none of it though—he’s staring into his teacup—and I’m feeling more off-kilter by the second at his unusual conduct in addition to his wife’s. I mean, he definitely has the tendency to brood, but he’s always polite and a good host (all of that ‘pureblood breeding.’ _Pfft_.) They’re usually so different, especially Astoria.

I continue. “I sincerely believe that you will be excellent parents and that if anyone deserves a child, it’s the two of you,” I state earnestly (though this, too, was rehearsed).

I had to practice keeping bitterness out of my tone; it took all week to achieve. I was bitter because of my failed marriage. I was bitter about Ron’s _convenient_ little deception. I was bitter for the four wasted years I spent with a liar. I was not bitter us not having a child. I finally realized that _Ron and I_ didn’t deserve a child. _I_ do (if anyone actually _can_ _deserve_ any such blessing), but he didn’t. I wouldn’t have wished his aversion to being a father on any child—even to fulfill my own desire to be a mother. I want the father of my children to love them and want them as much as I do.

I inhale and exhale deeply to keep my emotions under check, and Astoria takes advantage of the pause in my little soliloquy to speak. “We are grateful for you even considering this, Hermione. We realize that being pregnant and single was not part of the vision you had for your life,” (I make a small throaty noise; apparently, I’m not doing a thorough job at concealing my feelings after all) “and we understand what a tremendous sacrifice it would be for you to commit to having a baby right now.”

Her words take me by surprise, and my heart flutters a bit; she didn’t say any of this a few days ago. Without stilling my needles, I take a moment to quickly assess my friends; Astoria still looks apprehensive, and Draco still looks desperately uncomfortable.

 _Perhaps they have changed their minds about me. Perhaps my answer to their proposal will not disappoint as much as I had feared,_ I think hopefully as my gaze falls to my knitting again.

See, as much as I initially enjoyed indulging in the idea of going through with the plan exactly as Astoria had presented it to me (that is, including the ‘requirement’), I felt equally as repulsed by my indulgence afterward. That’s not who I am; when I was with Ron, I never strayed—in thought or deed. Marriages aren’t meant for that (although, my duplicitous ex-husband did not share this sentiment, apparently).

The day after Astoria asked me to think about her proposal….after I had indulged….I recalled the phrase ‘the ends justify the means.’ I had to wonder, though: is there really is any truth to that? I wondered if a blissful ending could result through depraved means. If something that is already so very remarkably beautiful could be made more so through corruption—through means that result in the tainting of itself?

I couldn’t answer ‘yes’ to those questions. I realized that I couldn’t—that I wouldn’t—agree to Astoria and Draco’s proposal.

The truth of what may (or surely will) lay ahead—me not getting what I so desperately want PLUS two of my friends hating me—was (and is) an inconvenient one. My life has had more than my share of those, lately.

Though I’ve only been on this path for less than a week, I have not doubted my decision for even a moment—even though it has not brought me happiness. My decision has brought me peace, but not happiness. Did you know that the two are not synonymous? I didn’t, before all of this.

As I pull myself out of my thoughts and to the present conversation and to my knitting, I discover that I’ve been knitting so quickly and distractedly over the past few minutes that I’ve dropped more stitches than I’ve completed. Sighing, I undo my mistakes, thinking about how easily they were made and how easily I’m able to undo them. I’m struck by the similarity between my knitting and my current life.

 _Mistakes_.

Some mistakes are easily undone (like my knitting)—or have consequences that are not significant, at least. Other errors are forever beyond correction—beyond repair (like Ron’s deceit in our marriage).

Some errors cause permanent ruination.

Again, Astoria breaks the lull in the conversation. “You deserve happiness, too, Hermione. Draco and I hope that the three of us can all find our happiness through your sacrifice—that is, if you still want to be a mother soon?”

I look up at her; her countenance is what I can only describe as timidly hopeful, and I let out a tiny sigh of relief. “Despite the recent…. _tumultuous_ turn of events in my life,” I begin, “I do still want to be a mother soon, and I am agreeable to your proposal—under one condition,” I say to my knitting needles before I look up to Astoria’s lovely face, which gracing me with a timid smile. A miniscule glance to my right shows Draco to be now looking up at the ceiling, and has sunk deep into the sumptuous chair; by the almost imperceptible gap between his lips, I see that his jaw is now relaxed.

 _Well, he was clearly expecting me to decline the offer—and, moreover, is relieved by my acquiescence (at least, in part)._ I just hope he is not personally offended by my condition.

I take in a steadying breath; courage is not easily summoned, and neither is maintaining integrity in the face of potentially losing something important. “I do not agree to the terms of the conception. I will not sleep with a man who is married. In vitro is my counteroffer.”

Some emotion fleetingly flickers in Astoria’s eyes, but it’s gone in the next moment to be replaced by her usual golden-brown-eyed sparkle. Her hands are pressed together as if in prayer over her mouth; I see the ends turning up slightly. The look of discomfort is back in Draco’s posture; his body is rigid and his jaw clenched. I see a small furrow in his brow.

_He can’t have actually wanted to sleep with me to conceive his child—could he?_

Draco’s eyes are on Astoria, and hers are on me. My gaze flits between the two of them.

Quite a dichotomy, they are.

Nothing is said until Astoria squeals before practically leaping over the sofa table to cage me into a tight embrace. She’s sitting on my left, her face blocked from Draco’s view by my head (and, yes, by my riotous hair), and I can’t see Draco’s expression now at all—probably a good thing.

“Hermione,” she softly coos, still hugging me, a minute later. “I will always be thankful for you—even after I leave this world.”

 

\----

Draco: 

It took every power within me to maintain my emotionless mask in front of Hermione when I entered the lounge. I was so sure that she’d say no, and that Astoria would be crushed, inconsolable, angry—that she’d cry. (I can’t bear to see her cry.)

When Hermione agreed to our proposal, a yoke lifted from my shoulders. That feeling did not change when she informed us that she had a condition. _So she has a condition_ , I thought…. _some stipulation or a request for a concession on our part—so what? Astoria and I will still be parents._

When she voiced her counterproposal, however, I almost jumped out of my seat. My emotions did a complete one-eighty in what felt like less than five seconds. I’m almost certain Hermione picked up on the complete change in my demeanor, but honestly, I don’t care.  

Astoria, though—Merlin, she is a master of masking her emotions—quite the feat for a Hufflepuff! Clearly, my wife has spent way too much time around Slytherins. Her face betrayed nothing that would have indicated to Hermione that she had not discussed the ‘terms’ of the proposal that Hermione objected to with me. She didn’t even look guilty to me, but the fact remains that Astoria and I did not agree to stipulate (we didn’t even discuss it!) that Hermione have sex with me to conceive our child.

My wife—a deceiver. That’s new.

When Hermione said, ‘I will not sleep with a man who is married. In vitro is my counteroffer,’ I almost jumped up out of my comfortable chair and shouted, ‘WHAAAAAAAT?’ Thankfully, composure is my middle name (well, it’s really _Lucius_ , but that’s rather here nor there.) After the shock passed, I almost laughed; I thought that Hermione had to have been joking. When I saw Astoria’s reaction to Hermione’s statement, I knew that Hermione had been serious. Astoria’s golden eyes had flashed ever so slightly, and I had caught that look in them: relief. Astoria had not been confused or delighted by some joke; she had been relieved.

 _That minx tested Hermione._ I’m completely baffled as to why (but I’m secretly proud of her Slytherin prowess, nonetheless).

So relieved I am that, one: _my wife did not actually want me to sleep with Hermione_ , and two: _that Hermione does not want to sleep with me_ , I don’t notice how or when Astoria ends up sitting on Hermione’s sofa. When I finally attune my ears and mind to their conversation, I hear Astoria making plans to accompany Hermione to Dr. Grey’s office— _tomorrow_. Apparently, Astoria has already made the appointment.

 _Quite the woman, my Astoria,_ I think and chuckle quietly to myself as I watch her. She’s more beautiful to me right now than she has ever been before. She’ll make such a wonderful mother, and no other woman deserves motherhood more than my wife does (well, perhaps Hermione, too, for all that she’s gone through and for how much she’s willing to sacrifice).

Astoria and I do not take Hermione’s situation or her gift lightly. We’ve discussed how Hermione’s life will be affected by her pregnancy (wizards not dating her, the questions and criticism from her friends and colleagues, etc.) and by then being a mother to a child who lives with other people and has another ‘Mum’. Hermione will make all of the sacrifices, and Astoria and I will get the fruits of her labor—pun intended (I’m not just a pretty face, here, people).

Hermione as my child’s mother—I never, ever would have imagined it weren’t for Astoria’s suggestion. Except for her wild mane of curls (which, I have to admit, are tamed and more attractive than they were at Hogwarts), Hermione’s looks are so similar to Astoria’s that our child could potentially look quite similar to Astoria. I’m sure that the recessive genes for the renowned Malfoy hair and eyes will be expunged by the dominant traits in Hermione’s genes.

More importantly, though, she’ll be a great partner for Astoria and I to raise a child with part-time—except for the fact that she was a Gryffindor, of course. Honestly, though, I’m not even worried about that, nor do I believe I ever will be; no child of mine would ever be sorted into Gryffindor. But, for the sake of argument, if he or she were, well, I really don’t care. My father, though, would probably lose what’s left of his sanity (I can’t say that I would think it a shame). If my father were involved in this, he’d say (well, he’d have quite a bit to say, but that’s beside the point at the moment) that Astoria and I should draft a clause into our contract with Hermione that stipulates that the child should demand that the Sorting Hat not place him or her in Gryffindor (or Hufflepuff, but that comment from my father would really just be a jab at my wife).

Softly, I sigh as I imagine the backlash Astoria and I will receive from our families when they find out how our child will come to be. None of our parents will be happy about Hermione being our surrogate/donor. Besides the fact that Hermione is not a Pureblood, my parents will object to Hermione because of the ‘bad blood’ between them and her; Astoria’s will object because they want Daphne to birth our child (they want their line to continue, you see). As a betting man, however, I’d wager that our mothers’ complaints will be short lived and will cease upon the birth of the child. Father will be pleased, at least, that the family name will not go extinct. Whatever ends up happening, though, Astoria and I will handle like we did when we announced our courtship and engagement to our parents; together and unwavering.

I sigh again as my thoughts again turn to the drawing up of the contract. I am not looking forward to that process in and of itself, but more especially because my solicitor and Hermione know one another, and I fear she will be none too pleased to have to deal with him.

 

\----

 

 Draco:

Astoria and Hermione are in Dr. Grey’s exam room; I’m in the waiting room now, having already provided my _contribution_ _toward the conception_ in a private room in the doctor’s office. It was more degrading than any happening I can imagine; I certainly hope that repeating it will not be necessary. Apparently, Muggles do this quite often to conceive—some Muggle men even regularly contribute for money.

I shiver with revulsion at the thought.

Finally, my wife and the soon-to-be mother of my child reappear in the waiting room, both looking pleased—though Astoria is practically humming with happiness, her magic radiating through her pores. She’s beautiful, and I quickly escort her and Hermione out of the office before Astoria performs accidental magic in front of the Muggles.

Once outside, we find a secluded spot for apparition. Back in our townhome, Astoria gleefully reports, “Next month!”

I raise a brow, asking for more information, but Astoria is too gleeful to explain. Hermione laughs at my wife, giving her arm a squeeze, and turns to me.

“Through the combination of Muggle and Magical means, achieved by Dr. Grey working with her sister, a Healer at St.Mungo's, I’ll be implanted with the embryos next month,” she says calmly but with a huge grin.

“Embryos?” I ask. I know the basic biology of this process, having studied it with Astoria when we first married, but I recall that the word for a fertilized egg is ‘embryo,’ not ‘embryos.’

Hermione nods, her expression morphing into the familiar one from school (the look of the ‘Gryffindor Swot,’ as she was known back then), although she is clearly happy. “Yes. Three fertilized eggs. It will increase the likelihood of an implantation occurring.”

I nod in understanding as Astoria squeals, “We could have more than one baby, Draco!”

I presume that we will. Hermione Granger never has been one to do things ‘half-ass,’ after all.

 

\----

 

Draco:

“Do you think she’s not coming?” Astoria asks me worriedly. She’s biting her nails and surreptitiously tapping her dainty heel as she sits next to me in our solicitor’s office. “Do you think that she was told whose office to meet us in and she’s upset and not going to come?”

Astoria and I purposely directed Hermione to meet us at the law office of Montague & Associates, not specifying which solicitor—the only solicitor at Montague & Associates who specializes in Family Law—with whom we all would be meeting. I admit that I’ve had the same concern, but I don’t admit this to my wife.

“No,” I tell her. “I’m sure that Hermione is just running late.” She wouldn’t be so petty as to let something that happened nearly a decade ago interfere with our plans. Would she? I mean, she’s forgiven me of my past deeds, so she’d do the same for anybody….right?

Then again, I never behaved the way _he_ behaved.

 _He_ enters his own office and, after greeting us both warmly, sits down, organizing his desk and the stack of parchments on top of it. Astoria has ceased biting her nails now that we have company, but her heel is tapping on the floor more rapidly than before.

A few minutes later (fifteen minutes after our appointment was to begin), a harried Hermione enters the office, spouting off a rapid apology as Astoria and I stand to greet her. Astoria gives her a hug and as Hermione explains that she lost track of time trying to break some curse for Gringott’s. Her focus solely on Astoria and me, she has not made eye contact with our solicitor yet (plus, I’m standing in between her and him).

I offer my butter-soft leather swivel barrel chair for Hermione as I stand to her side to offer Astoria’s chair for her once more. My wife and I are watching Hermione with baited breaths as she places her ugly purse on the floor in front of her and looks up to the man sitting behind the desk.

Her mouth opens slightly, whether to begin to introduce herself or out of surprise, I can’t say, though the rest of her looks surprised. Then, she pales slightly and sits up, her back straight as a board. I take the third swivel chair, placed next to Astoria’s, and catch Hermione’s eye; I can tell that she’s perturbed, but she forces a smile. A tight one.

“Ms. Granger, it’s a pleasure to see you again. I am the solicitor here at Montague & Associates who specializing in Family Law. I will be advising you in the drawing up of your surrogate and custody agreement,” says my solicitor as he stands to shake hands with Hermione over his desk.

“And you, McLaggen,” Hermione returns quietly. I exhale in relief.

 

\----

 

Draco:

The appointment has taken two hours, and McLaggen has behaved very professionally the entire time—not once did I see even a smidge of leering on his face.

After the contracts are finished and we’ve all said the appropriate goodbyes, I hear McLaggen ask Hermione for a ‘moment of her time.’

I shoot her a look and indicate with my head that Astoria and I will be right outside the office. She nods and smiles timidly at me and then says to McLaggen, “Yes, I have a few minutes before I’m expected somewhere.”

Outside, in the corridor, a worried Astoria looks at me, questioningly; she, too, remembers the story Hermione told us years ago about how McLaggen tried to force his kisses on her and felt her up after Slughorn’s Christmas Party in our sixth year. I shrug as I lean against the wall, faking nonchalance (my forte), but actually concerned for our friend. Astoria, however, is faking nothing; she’s blatantly eavesdropping. I throw her a look of incredulity, and she just waves me off.

_Who is this woman I’m married to?_

When Hermione emerges a mere minute later, Astoria starts talking to me, as if we’ve been conversing (and not straining our ears and holding our breaths so that we can overhear her conversation) the whole time. Hermione’s countenance suggests that all is well, and so we three begin our trek out of the law office and into Diagon Alley.

Once outside, Astoria asks, “Hermione, was McLaggen appropriate with you just now?” I see genuine concern clearly written on her face, but I’m surprised by her question; I thought she’d heard everything.

“Uh, yeah. He apologized for his behavior toward me while at school. He was very gentlemanly, actually.”

“We appreciate you putting your past with him aside for the meeting,” I say, albeit a bit awkwardly.

Hermione waves me off this time. “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “He seems much changed,” she adds in a surprised tone.

“Wonderful,” Astoria replies cheerfully. “Now, Hermione,” she says conspiratorially as she loops her arm through Hermione’s. “Let’s go eat and fatten you up a bit. I want our baby coming out pleasantly plump.”

 

\----

Hermione: 

I’ve finished my knitting project—just in time, too; it’s for Harry’s birthday.

The party tonight is at, as usual, the Burrow, the home of Harry’s family….my family, too, though not technically, anymore. Since the dissolution of my marriage to Ron, my relationship with the Weasleys is strained, but it seems to be out of guilt and sorrow for what Ron did to me. Ron, who was punished with a one-year sentence for his use of Unforgivables while on the job as an Auror, is in prison, and although I know that his family have visited him there, they all have expressed their loyalty and love to me, as well. How the dynamic will be next year at Harry’s birthday party no one can say, but, for now, I’m going to enjoy time with them. With _my_ family.

As I emerge from the Floo at the Burrow and stand to right myself after the whirlwind of Floo travel, I nearly collapse. Luckily, Harry was there, waiting for me, and he assists me to the nearest seat.

“Whoa, there, Hermione! Started celebrating already? A little ‘drinky, drinky,’ eh?” George teases.

“No,” I protest. “It was just the Floo travel! Harry, may I please have a glass of water?”

Concerned as ever, Harry hops to it and returns quickly with a large glass. It tastes a bit metallic, but refreshing nonetheless, and I feel much better. I stand to greet Molly, and I must have stood too quickly, because I’m dizzy. Once again, I’m assisted into a chair, and I put my head between my legs.

When I raise my head, I’m met with dubious glances and smirks. Even Harry is silently laughing at my expense!

“You’re sure you haven’t been hitting the sauce, Hermione?” Harry asks.

“NO!” I cry out, indignant. “Honestly! You all are looking at me like I’m some lush! For your information, I haven’t even had one drink in over a month!”

That seems to appease most of the Weasleys and the other guests, though a few, including Molly, are eying me speculatively.

“I’ll bring you some more water, dear, alright?” Molly says in her kind way. “You just sit tight.”

 

\----

 

“Happy birthday, dear Harry. Happy birthday to you!” we all sing as the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Twenty-Four blows out his candles. As I finish helping Molly distribute the cake slices, my stomach is threatening to make my dinner re-appear.

All of a sudden, I’m dashing to the loo (and barely making it to the toilet, truth be told). Too bad I didn’t have time to put up a Silencing Charm….too bad I didn’t even have time to shut the door!....because I’m vomiting up all of my dinner and about as much water as can be found in the pond in the garden out back.

I’m sweaty ( _glistening_ , as my mother would have put it) and my abdominals hurt from the force of the vomiting when I feel no more urge to do so. I perform a Scourgify and a Teeth Cleansing Charm before I rejoin the party.

They’re all staring at me—some with pitying looks, some with looks of disgust ( _thanks_ , Fred and George, _as if I needed to know that hearing someone puke their guts out is disgusting_ )—but it’s Molly’s reaction that surprises me most.

“Whose is it then?” she asks excitedly.

I think my eyes literally did bulge out from their sockets.

_What the…._

My ex-husband’s mother is _actually_ _keen_ on her recently divorced ex-daughter-in-law being pregnant? Oh, _Sorcerer’s Stones_ —she can’t possibly think it’s Ron’s baby, can she? I’d be nearly five months along by now! I look down at my abdomen and smooth my clothing taught over it. No. There’s no way I look pregnant enough for her to think that I conceived with Ron.

Before anyone can say anything, I groan. Loudly.

And then I’m hightailing it back to the loo-but this time, I’m trembling with excitement (well, and because of my body’s physical reaction to vomiting, but it sounds better to ignore that).

 _I’m going to be a mum!_ I think.

 _I can’t wait to tell Draco and Astoria!_ I think.

 _I’m going to get tired of this view really quick,_ I think.

  

 

 

 

           


	5. Part V

-Journal entry

_Dear Children,_

_Today is the day your father and I found out that we are going to have you, that you will make us a dad and a mum! I’m positively thrilled and completely impatient for your birth! I love you already, Little Ones!_

_I have been marveling over you constantly! How special you are! You are the first children to be created by Magical and Muggle means. You are truly a combination of the Magical and Muggle worlds! You will have such a rich heritage from both worlds through your dad and Mummy Hermione! Through you, my loves, I have immense hope for tolerance of the Muggleborn and the Muggle world in the Magical!_

_All my love, Always,_

_Mummy Astoria_

 

~ 

 

When Hermione, Draco, and I returned to Hogwarts in 1998 (them for their repeat of seventh year and me for my sixth year), the social atmosphere was strained, to say the least. A great divide existed, despite the efforts of Headmistress McGonagall, the Board of Governors, and Hermione Granger to bridge the gap.

The first of many changes instituted at Hogwarts that year was that the four Houses, named for the Hogwarts Founders, were dissolved; this had been Hermione’s brainchild. Secondly, the Sorting Hat was retired, and, instead of being sorted, students were divided up into manageable groups by surname. The new groups were named after species of dragons; fitting, some thought, as the school motto is "Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus" (which means “Never Tickle a Sleeping Dragon”). Surnames A through F made up the Horntails; surnames G through M made up the Opaleyes; surnames N through S made up the Ridgebacks; and surnames T through Z made up the Vipertooths.

That is how Hermione, Draco, and I ended up being housed together; but that was only the first of many contributing factors that brought about our friendship.

We Opaleyes, like all of the other Houses, had our fair share of problems; but when Hermione showed a willingness to move on from the past to Draco and the rest of us who had been Slytherins or whose parents had been on the wrong side of the war, she changed the atmosphere in our House. Within a few months, the other Houses had followed our example, and the post-war tensions within the castle had subsided significantly.  

Because of the associations many students and their families had to the dungeons, no students were housed there, and no classes were held there; and, thanks to Hermione, the dungeons were given to all of the elves working at Hogwarts so that they didn’t have to sleep on the floor of the kitchen.

Hermione, the former ostracized and belittled Muggleborn—the former victim—the war heroine, did those things (and much more!). She was the one in our generation who led the way for tolerance in our post-war world. She was the one to show us all that every person, every elf—every living being—was more than what people thought of them and more than their mistakes and more than what their family or former House stood for.

Hermione was brave, just, ambitious, and wise—the best of the characteristics of each of our former Houses, the embodiment of at least one trait that we all had either aspired to or prized in ourselves. She showed us that there was so much more to be valued than just what our cultures previously had caused us to believe.

Hermione hasn’t changed, and I can’t think of any reason why a person wouldn’t want to have her as a colleague, a friend, a roommate, a wife, or their children’s mother. So far, I’ve accomplished three of the five of those designations.

Draco and I have asked Hermione to move in with us (well, I practically moved her in myself before she had much time to protest). She’s got a lovely floor (her room, a private bath, a sitting room, and the future location of the nursery) all to herself in our Mayfair townhome.

Now, on to the fourth designation…


	6. Part VI

An Inconvenient Truth and A Convenient Deception

Part VI

Astoria's POV

 

When we went back to Hogwarts in 1998, former prefects (including the students who were returning to repeat their seventh year) were given the option of being prefects again; Hermione agreed, as did I.

Therefore, as Hermione and I were both prefects for Opaleye House, we spent much time together. My fragile health didn’t allow me to participate in physical activities, and I much preferred to read or needlepoint, much like Hermione preferred to read and knit.

We studied together, too, occasionally. I excelled in some subjects, but knowing that I was not going to live to have a long, successful career in any capacity made me disinclined to work hard at anything I had no interest in. I didn’t even take the N.E.W.T. Hermione, of course, graduated with honors, as did Draco, who had declined a Prefect position, deciding instead to focus on his studies and Quidditch. He was the Reserve Seeker for Opaleye House, and, after everything that he’d done and been part of, he was thrilled to be able to be on the team and compete, though it was infrequent.

Hermione and I became so close that, at times, I felt as though she—and not Daphne—was my sister. Halfway through the year, she and Daphne even traded rooms in the girls’ dormitory so that Hermione could room with me and so that Daphne (who had chosen to room with me initially just because we are sisters) could room with the older girls (the Seventh and Eighth Years).

When I (a ‘late bloomer’) had my first period, Hermione was there to help me through the first time. She advised me on the best brews and spells I could use for the mood swings, cramps, and acne, and she made me a special tea and conjured a hot water bottle for my abdomen before teaching me the spells to do so for myself next time. She, however, tended to and doted on me every time thereafter.

When Hermione had nightmares, I was there for her. Luna Lovegood, one of our roommates, was also plagued by her wartime trauma; Hermione would console and cry with Luna, and when Hermione was exhausted and emotionally fragile from that, I was there for her. When Ronald Weasley (the eternal imbecile) forgot her birthday and Valentine’s Day and didn’t reply to her letters for weeks on end, I was there.

And because of all of that—because of her—I wouldn’t miss being here for Hermione through her pregnancy for the world! It just feels right to be at my sister’s side at the happiest time in her life.

Having her so near these past few months has made me realize how I’ve missed her these last few years. The consolation is that I know that she will be able to live her life without me once again; that makes my looming departure from this world easier to face.

Now, I only need worry about how my Draco will fare.

 

<> 

 

-Journal entry

 

 _My Dearest Draco_ ,

_We saw the babies—our children, Draco!—on the Muggle and Magical Ultrasounds today. Sometimes I can hardly comprehend that there are three babies in Hermione’s tiny belly! Weren’t they amazing? Their tiny hearts beating like hummingbird wings. Their tiny little bodies, stretching and kicking!_

_I wouldn’t trade that special moment with you and Hermione for all of the riches and magic in the world! I loved every second of it, and I will treasure it for longer than I shall live!_

_I’m so thankful and so thrilled that you were there to experience it with Hermione and me!_

_Thank you, my love, for taking a bit of time away from the shoppe to be there. There’s always more time for work, but not always more time with those we love._

_Just as you have always made me your first priority (and how I love  you for it, Draco!), the people we love—our family and our friends who are like family—must always be our priority. Please promise me that you and I will keep them close, Draco._

_Thank you the gift of our children, my heart’s desire, and your love! I will treasure them, too, for longer than I shall live._

_All my love, Always,_

_Astoria_

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this!  
> Disclaimer: only the plot is mine!


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